


Rhythm, Soul (Swapping), and Blues

by grimey_gal



Category: Child's Play | Chucky (Movies 1998-2017)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Angst, Chucky sucks at life but we knew this, Gen, Multi, Soul stuff, Soulmates, Unresolved Tension, i guess, some vodou elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimey_gal/pseuds/grimey_gal
Summary: After some suspicions, Tiffany discovers Chucky's blatant blundering of Vodou practice has caused some ... fragmenting. Let's just say, it's brought he and Andy's already bizarrely unlabeled relationship to an entirely new level of complicated.
Relationships: Andy Barclay/Chucky | Charles Lee Ray, Kristen de Silva and Jess Ivers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Rhythm, Soul (Swapping), and Blues

It should be said that you shouldn’t infringe on a practice that wasn’t meant for you. Unlike Catholicism or Agnosticism, and other public beliefs, certain things should just aren’t to be fooled with. Better to leave alone what you don’t understand. Wicca or Taoism, or Vodou, isn’t for everyone, and it should be said that that is quite alright. Not everyone needs to whet their appetite on power by playing buffet with a menagerie unknown deities. Certain traditions are there only for those who were born into, or invited (and even then, tread carefully). Otherwise, it comes back around to nip you when you least expect it - and it will leave a mark. Or a scar. Or, in some particular’s case, a strange soul, puzzle-with-missing-pieces conundrum.

In retrospect, it should have been common sense, but retrospect and common sense have never been Chucky’s strong suit.

In any case, it had begun to become quite clear to Tiffany the day that Chucky called on the phone, in a frantic state about his body, very literally, falling to pieces and being in a disarray of emotions. Of course, at the time she hadn’t all the pieces put together quite yet from merely the phone call, but she had begun to suspect something. Chucky had always been a bit more into what he called “Black Magic” than she had; she had never been the type to infringe on what wasn’t any of her concern. _Mind the business that pays you_ , that was one of her multitude of mottos that she swore on and lived by. It hadn’t let her down so far, and from the looks of Chucky’s current state of affairs, it seems a pretty solid motto to adhere to. 

But I digress. 

She recounts that it had been particularly when she came upon the scene of Chucky, bloodied and forlorn, and quite at his wits end, with none other than Andy Barclay himself at his side, almost equally as forlorn. A strange encounter between them, in her opinion, but then again, she had not been living in the same four walls they had been sharing for quite a few months at the time (which was a curiosity on its own). It felt nothing short of alien, seeing Andy behave as if he were undergoing the painful processes himself, and that was when - even with her sparse knowledge of shrines or worship to any of the Lwa - she had begun to suspect something had gone awry from the very beginning of the history between these two men. At the time, she’d been so distracted by Andy’s female friend and her own strange aura that she hadn’t taken the time to process everything all at once. But now, while she stocks up her salon in the back and texts Glenda _please don’t forget you and Glenn have tutoring after school so do not get on the school bus, wait for the charter,_ and then another _I mean it!_ , it mulls over in her mind, and she wonders. 

She’s intrigued enough to try and do a bit of digging around in Chucky’s old textbooks, pamphlets and other testimonials that he’s never remembered to pick up from her house, and then some more online, clicking on various blogs that take her down long-winded paths that all circle about to say the same thing: there simply isn’t a lot of information about Vodou, as it is a closed and very, _very_ sacred practice. Frankly, the seriousness of it all leaves her in shock that Chucky is not in _more_ of a predicament than he is. She will offer him that respect. He’s always had quite the knack for slipping himself out of trouble. Subsequently, she has quite a bit of respect for Andy, seeing as he is the one trouble that Chucky’s never quite been able to slip out of. It’s about time the little bastard had a comeuppance or two. And in the spirit of honesty, she rather _likes_ Andy, despite her ride or die for Chucky behavior pitting her against him once. Now that they’ve all gone and changed quite a bit, coming to know him has put him in an endearing position in her heart. A sweet boy with a heart of gold. The irony of it being he and Chucky (who is well-renowned for being anything but sweet, and with a high doubt of having a heart in general), winding up a tightly-woven pair is amusing. For her, at any rate. 

Hours later, she still hasn’t gotten a precise answer, but she’s beginning to have a hunch. One that she keeps in her back pocket, just as a reference card of sorts. She’s done the conceptual studying, but she hopes the fieldwork will be much more fruitful. All she needs is time and patience, and being a former lover of Charles Lee Ray, she is more than proficient in these regards. She knows how to lie in wait. In contrast, she is feeling that rare feeling of impatience and anxiety. If her hypothesis proves correct, it could change things for all of them involved. If she’s correct, she isn't sure if she should even meddle. Andy is resting heavily on her mind, however, and she feels it is almost a moral duty to at least report it to him. At the _very_ least, report it to him prior to breathing a hair of it to Chucky. 

For now, however, she has her own things to tend to. She’ll deal with the matter of Chucky and his supposed misdemeanors with the Vodou practice later. Starting with the mess she’s made out of Chucky’s archives. She snaps a book shut, sneezing at the dust that puffs out of it up into her nostrils. Where he got his hands on these, she wouldn’t know. He’d had them since they’d met, and he hadn’t ever quite opened up about it all too much. The less she knew the better, he told her, which she finds purely ironic, seeing as he’s obviously been rather careless himself. Or maybe he was more studious than she knew, and he just hadn’t let her in on all of his little secrets. Chucky, for as long as she’d known him, had never been an open book. And even if you got to crack open the pages, you’d find the language was either unintelligible or coded. 

Which is why, at the time of her desperation to see him again, she’d nicked a _Voodoo for Dummies_ text off a shelf at a resale shop near her. She didn’t feel all too bad for swiping it, as it was already marked down on price. She’s surprised it had worked at all, given now she has a bit more knowledge on the subject. 

It’s all well in the past now though, and she can’t dwell on it too long. The teens will be home soon, and they’re always hungry, especially Glenda. She’s stocked up on snacks in the pantry, but the last thing she needs is to raise children on poor eating habits. They’ve both been growing quickly, but as of late, Glenda has been especially a kind of terror in the kitchen, eating anything and everything they can get their hands on. It’s nothing to complain about; on the contrary, it’s something to be especially content - even proud - of. It _does_ leave her needing to constantly run errands to the market to keep the kitchen stocked, and that’s a much more tiresome task than you would think (unless you are a mother; in that case you are well aware of it). She rummages through the fridge and pantry, carefully selecting portions of proteins and fruits for an assortment plate. If she puts it on the counter, the twins will find it right away, and land on it to feed like vultures before going hunting for something they shouldn’t be indulging themselves in. 

Just in time too, as the front door slams open, and all of her peace and quiet makes itself scarce. She swears she can hear the knob ricochet off the wall, which means that more than likely, Glenda has used insurmountable force to wedge their way in, already making the staple beeline towards the kitchen. She can hear the rough and tumble of the two of them before she sees them, greedy hands reaching for the plate. It’s not too different from feeding rabid dogs, she thinks to herself. 

“Well, hello to you, too,” she drawls, a hand on her hip. Glenn, at least, has the decency to look guilty, swiping up a fistful of crackers and cheese before giving her a weary embrace and a soft, “Hi, Mom.” Glenda gives a half-nod of acknowledgement before digging into the plate again, speaking around their food in half-phrases that are mostly incoherent. 

“I was _determined_ and _intuitive_ today, Mom,” Glenn shares in a matter of fact kind of way, and she presumes they’re speaking about the tutoring session today. She’ll have to lend credit to Glenda’s attendance, if nothing else. But she gives a wordless signal anyways, and watches as Glenda bobs their head up and down as a confirmation. They reach into their backpack and pull out a crumpled packet, grinning proudly. She reaches over and snatches it up, raising her brows as she reviews it. Chicken scratch, of course, no surprise there, but as she slowly makes out Glenda’s handiwork, it appears that for the most part, Glenda had done their personal best to follow directions. She leans over the counter to press a kiss on Glenda’s head, who growls in response. She ignores it.

“And did your sibling get the same compliment?” She directs this at Glenn, who is the more reliable of the two. If she asks Glenda, she’ll either get a cryptic response or a plain fib (neither of which help her). Glenn pauses, seemingly thinking thoroughly about it so as to give a precise answer. 

“Glenda was _very funny_ , and showed their _full potential_ today,” they say, rubbing their chin in thought. “Also, the tutor said that she liked Glenda’s hairstyle, and wants to copy it next time she goes and gets her hair done, so I told her to make an appointment with you, because you’re the best hair stylist I know.” 

“ _That’s_ what I like to hear!” she exclaims, squeezing Glenn tightly before releasing him to scavenge through whatever Glenda hasn’t eaten yet of the charcuterie. She gives the other one an approving look and a thumbs up. “Glenda, you have an extra thirty minutes of free time today, as part of our deal.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Glenda hisses, fist-pumping the air. Glenn takes the opportunity to swipe a few more bites before clicking through their phone, plugging their earbuds in and disappearing into their room. She supposes to finish one of their many incomplete paintings lying around (or to begin a new one, which will most likely also be left half-done). Glenda ravishes the plate, but surprisingly instead of scampering off as they normally would, they stay seated at the counter, as if waiting for something. 

“What is it, stink bug?” she asks, clearing the now-emptied plate off the counter. She can feel Glenda’s eyes on her as she rinses it off in the sink, clattering other dishes out of the way. She’ll get to them later. Soon enough, it will be time for dinner. She turns and leans back against the sink, waiting on Glenda to speak their piece. Glenda has a deep scowl on their face that is all too reminiscent of Chucky when he’s in a tantrum. They both have that explosive attitude, but she likes to think she’s at least raised Glenda to be a bit more self-aware and to have a control on their anger. Sometimes, she can see it. 

Chucky is an entirely other story. He seems a bit mellowed out enough lately, but she’s sure he’s still running amok through the night, unbeknownst to Andy, causing all sorts of chaos. If she thought _she_ gave her therapist a run for her money, Chucky would make his quit, if he had one. The idea is amusing. 

“Mom, I want a dress for prom,” Glenda says, finally, pulling her out of her thoughts. They seem embarrassed about it, not quite looking at her when they say it. She has to be careful the way she responds about this. She’s never been sure why things of the more feminine nature have always made Glenda shirk in disgust and offense; it could, perhaps, be remnants of when the two souls were once combined in the one puppet, the way she and Chucky had first found them. Something will always be at war within her children, and she isn’t all too sure of how capable she is of alleviating that battle, but she does try to be somewhat soothing throughout the process. Least of all, she never wants them to feel as if any of it is their fault, or that they’re unworthy of the world she wants to give them. 

So she settles for responding with, “Okay,” slowly, and then, “Did you have a color or style in mind? Or did you want my help?” 

The trick is to not get too worked up about it, although dolling anyone up has always been an excitement for her. But, if she shows a bit too much of an interest, Glenda will snap-shut on the subject, and pretend they’d never been interested. She’s had to practice the art of sounding casual and apathetic about the situation. Glenn is the complete opposite; they need an overabundance of enthusiasm and encouragement in almost all of their choices, so she supposes it all balances out, in the end. She can release all the pent up energy on their passions when they come around to share them later. 

“No, I don’t,” Glenda answers, still deep in thought, and probably some deep-seated identity crisis that she isn’t sure if she’ll handle it correctly. “It’s just that… you and Glenn always look like you’re having fun when you do all that stuff together.” 

They’re doing well, all things considering. She doesn’t think that Glenda’s ever been this eloquent about anything they’ve wanted before. She hums, just to let them know they’re listening, and waits. 

“And,” Glenda continues, now in another train of thought, “All the girls at school look so pretty, and I think being pretty with them would be fun. The boys are always so annoying, and I’m tired of them thinking I want to be their friend just because I’m dressed like them.” 

At this, she snorts, and it’s hard to contain her natural response. “Boys _can_ be pretty annoying, huh?” she offers, finally coming to sit next to them. “Girls can be annoying too, though, just a little warning. My sister and I fought all the time because we got on each other’s nerves.” 

“That’s _siblings_ , that doesn’t count,” Glenda insists. But they’re smirking, as if they know something she doesn’t. “But I guess since I don’t think I’m not really a boy _or_ a girl, I’m immune to being annoying, right?” 

Tiffany elbows them playfully. “Not boy girls are annoying too, you little rascal,” she teases. “How about on Saturday we look for a dress for you, okay? And maybe if that’s what Glenn wants too, we can all go together? And maybe Jade can help?” 

Glenda’s eager smile and nod are enough to take as excitement, and then they’re bounding off, and soon she can hear the twins squabbling, no doubt Glenda antagonizing Glenn. 

“Be nice to your twin, Glenda!” she warns. 

Her children’s situation is another example of Vodou what-powers-may-be gone haywire. She’s fairly confident that when she and Chucky had first come across them, they had been two souls in the little puppet body, who came meekly to tell them that they were their parents. At the time, they’d only known Glenn, who Chucky had _insisted_ was a boy. After all, a man’s pride was in his son, according to his bigoted old ways. But she’d always seen two, in soul, personality, and energy. There had been an androdynous and Greater Yin inside their children since the moment she’d laid eyes on them. Chucky, of course, hadn’t believed her for the longest time, and par the course, was absolutely enraged when it became obvious he was wrong. He’d had the most difficult time accepting it, and it’s clear the twins still bear the scars of their father’s rebuke, whether they say so or not. Glenn is much more obvious about it, shirking and becoming withdrawn around him, but Glenda shows it in the way they constantly threaten Chucky whenever he’s around, taking delight in frightening him in whatever way they can. She will allow Chucky the recognition of _trying_ recently, though. As much as he messes up their pronouns and interests, he takes his mistakes with a grain of salt as of late, merely repeating himself with the correct verbage, and carrying on as if nothing had erred to begin with. 

She’ll have to make a house call. The twins are overdue for a painting lesson from him anyways, and they hardly see him as is. It’ll be a friendly visit, but she has to know. And, at the very least, she should present Andy with the option. She supposes it’s only fair that Chucky knows as well, lest he loses his mind that she went behind his back. But she’ll have nothing to show if she doesn’t see it for herself. And Glenn seems to have fixated on Andy anyways, and will make the trip to their dad if it means they can give polite small talk and then cling to Andy as if _he_ was their father instead. She wonders how Chucky internalizes this, or if he even really notices at all. He can be obtuse when it comes to emotional affairs. Which brings her back to the question at hand. If Chucky is this obtuse with family matters, she’s more than convinced he hasn’t even thought to look into his soul-swapping escapades, and what consequences he might have brought on _himself_ as a result, let alone anyone else. Exhibit A being his painfully gory transition from plastic doll to small, crotchety old human (which, if you asked her, is much more on par with his aptitude). If she’s correct, that pair may have a fair amount of consequences underway without the slightest warning. 

***

She arrives just half an hour prior to the time she’d told Chucky she was coming, and Glenda is already pounding on the door, shouting profanities. She hushes them, stopping their hand from making contact with the wooden frame again, and gives them a slightly harsh admonishment about _better manners_ and _I raised you better than this_ , to which Glenda responds with an angry pout and a hot breath. They link an arm with Glen’s before crossing both arms across their chest, a deep scowl already on their face, hair already unraveled from their rubber band and nearly hiding their entire face. She can still see their eyes through it though, one sharp blue and one striking green. Glenn watches her with equally as intense of a look, but of a different nature. 

“Don’t look at me like that, lightning bug,” she pleads softly, squeezing their chin in encouragement. “You always end up having fun. You know this.” 

Glenn doesn’t respond to this, but she can see it in their eyes. The therapist has taught them all how to breathe, slow and steady, to reset their minds, and she’s found it’s worked for her and Glenda’s anger, and also for Glenn’s overwhelming anxiety. She can see the way they take deep breaths now, chest pumping, and can almost hear them counting in their head. They fidget with a dangling jewel on their right ear, tugging at it with each exhale. By the time she hears the knob fiddling on its hinges, she can see they’ve relaxed enough to have a small smile on their face, although it’s the one they always have plastered on as an obligation.

“You’re early,” Chucky is grousing, and despite having done this many times, she’ll never find herself over the hilarity of him opening a door that’s about three times his size. She doesn’t mention the stool he’s on, and ushers their children in, hanging her purse on the coat hanger on the wall. “I thought you said you’d be here at one.” 

“Nice to see you too,” she replies, smoothing out her dress and hair. She rolls her neck, loosening tight muscles and stiff ligaments. “And you know I never know for sure. It’s a bit of a drive, and the traffic on the I-90 was a nightmare. You know how my stomach is on long drives.”

“Yeah, a _cunt_ , just like you,” he grunts, then his eyes widen, cringing. “Sorry. Force of habit.” 

She waves him off. It’s one of the tamer ways he’s spoken to her before, and she’s long lost any attachments to him that make his opinion of her very important, anyways. Besides, they both know that he thinks highly of her, no matter how he tries to deny it. Despite everything, she is his closest confidant, even to this day. There hasn’t been a week where they haven’t corresponded at least once, from mundane subjects like swapping dinner recipes or laundry tricks, to more difficult conversations, ones that have him watery-voiced on the phone and that she’ll respect enough to keep a secret. She knows he returns the favor. 

“Andy’s in the shower.” He’s explaining his behavior at the door, she thinks, as he trots behind her. Suddenly he points his finger harshly outwards towards the hallway, waving it in a rush. 

“Hey! Get out of my room, you little son of a bitch!” he calls at Glenda before Tiffany can reprimand him about swear words, who’s already disappeared before she had even noticed. Glenn is standing awkwardly at the kitchen opening, hands in their pockets, rocking on their heels. Chucky wheels on him, waving aggressively towards the fridge. Glenn freezes in place, eyes wide and darting between the two of them. 

“Make yourself at home, kid, or whatever,” Chucky elaborates in a rushed exhale, before Glenn can think of bolting for the door. His voice reverbs off the walls as he continues his lackluster hosting while making a dash towards his bedroom. “There’s drinks in the fridge. Don’t touch the adult ones, mind you, not without your mom’s approval!” 

Then he’s swinging his bedroom door open, already howling at his other child, who Tiffany can hear laughing maniacally (again, much like their father’s). She makes her way to Glenn and squeezes their shoulders, ushering them to the fridge to scan through it together. There are several tupperware dishes stacked and packed on the shelves, which means Chucky really has been doing about as much cooking as he’s described to her, if not more. She wonders if the two of them even eat as much as he makes, giving it’s a Saturday and it’s still stacked like this. The light hardly penetrates through, so that the inside is dark, as if there was no bulb at all. There’s also a sparse assortment of sodas here and there, and some half-drunk two percent milk. She pushes some of the items here and there until she comes across what appears to be some kind of veggie-juice container. _Infused with Kale_ is written on it in tiny, bold print, and that certainly comes as a surprise. For either of them to have _juice_ , of any kind, is enough of a shock. The fact that it’s _green_ is beyond striking. She rotates it around, searching for an expiration date, and then twists the lid open, sniffing at it. It smells alright, for a juice with kale. 

“Here, try some of this with Mama, okay?” she says, already searching the cabinets for a clean glass. After spot checking and taking a towel to shine a couple of them, she fills both of their cups. It tastes surprisingly good, and she makes a mental note to look for one the next time she makes a pit stop at Kroger’s. Glenn seems to approve of it too, smacking their lips and looking slightly less unnerved. The cacophony of their sibling and father shouting at each other also seems to be helping. The first time she’d heard them, she’d been alarmed but they’ve been having family get-togethers long enough for her to know the air between them is filled with nothing but empty threats. Surely enough, Glenda’s boisterous laughter makes its way out, and then Chucky’s right behind her, before the two of them appear again, already arms full of paints and brushes and canvas. 

“Glenn, grab some of those little fucking shits under the sink… what are they called… _shit,_ uh… Mason Jars. Yeah, those guys,” Chucky’s half-muttering, all while continuously dropping supplies. He bends over to pick up a brush, only to let a tube of some kind of mauve paint topple out of his stout arms. “ _Christ_.” 

He lets it all fall on the coffee table, the items bouncing and shoving previous things off onto the floor. He’s out of breath, huffing and puffing, and cheeks red as if he’d run a marathon, and he swipes at the loose strands of hair framing his face. Without the scars, he’d be easily mistaken for the westernized cherub, which is only one of the many little ironies about him. He rolls his sleeves up, seemingly satisfied, and cocks an eyebrow at Glenda. “Here’s some patriarchal wisdom, kid: being pint-sized doesn’t do you any favors.” 

“It does _me_ a favor,” Glenda returns, holding their hands up to make a camera shape and pretending to size him up. “I need to practice my punting for football so I can land the PK.” 

Chucky puts up a fist, but goes back to setting up the coffee table, picking up the bowls and magazines that got pushed off to begin with. He lays out newspapers all over it, lining up three canvas and humming to himself. When Tiffany really looks at his eyes, she can see the thoughts skittering across his mind in the way the light changes in his eyes. She wonders if she’s the only one, or if Chucky and his little roommate have gotten just as close in this regard. Or, after her personal research, if they’ve understood these things about each other innately since nearly the beginning. Given their history, they should have parted ways a long time ago, or ended one another, in more or less violent ways, and yet, they’re near inseparable. She isn’t nearly as acquainted with Andy to know what goes on in his mind, but Chucky can’t stay away from him for long. He won’t ever say it, describing his state as just _tired_ or _homesick_ , but that much is a giveaway on it’s own. And she’s seen it too, in his general health. The longer they are apart from each other, the more faded he seems. Without knowing how Andy feels, she cannot truly know if there is anything deeper, or just the side-effect of Chucky’s obsessive nature.

Glenn scrounges up some of the jars, eyes trained on father and twin, while pushing up the handle on the faucet to fill them up. The hiss of the sink washes over the now hushed voices of Glenda and their father, deep in a discussion about color study and acrylics. Art has never been something Tiffany found herself gifted in, but her children love it, and she loves watching them create it. Glenn seems to have inclined towards their father’s artistic nature, but Glenda approaches anything as a challenge, and their competitive nature kicks in just enough so that they can’t keep their hands off of any hobby or specialty. They’re in the path of becoming a little jack of all trades, and as often as she’s had to discipline them, she’s proud of who they’re metamorphosing into. 

The three of them are wrists deep in paint and she’s helped herself to a glass of cheap bourbon on the rocks and a Todd Rundgren’s top hits album on the stereo when Andy appears, hair damp and clothes clinging to his frame. He clearly hadn’t dried himself off very thoroughly, and from what little she’s gathered on him, he’d probably felt the need to not ignore guests very long. One of the many little pieces of him she’s learned that’s only made her love him, whether she’d wanted to or not. Truthfully, when Chucky had first begun to admit his inexplicable connection to Andy Barclay, she’d wanted to kill him herself. Lost in her own romantic afflictions for her late-husband, she had always been of the belief that they would reunite, even after she’d known for good they never would be, and Andy at the time had just been another driving force to prove it. Not that he’d meant to be, but she’d harbored animosity against him for it anyways. The more she crossed paths with him and each cut her strings with Chucky however, she found him agreeable, and then likeable. Now, even with just the way he anxiously combs through his hair so that it slicks back, and settling next to her and helping himself to the bottle she’d just poured from, he’s family. She doesn’t deny it, nor does she want to. No matter how this ends, he always will be. 

She doesn’t say this though, and just raises her glass instead, and he holds the mouth of the bottle towards it, clinking their rims together and grinning sheepishly.

“Glad you made it safe,” he tells her, before pouring a shot, which is a noticeable change from the last time they’d spend time together. He’s measuring his alcohol intake, which is a good sign. She sneaks a glance over to where Chucky is, only to discover that he isn’t drinking at all. As if he hears her thoughts, he glances up, and there is that tell-tale glint in his eyes, the one she’s only ever seen once before, when he would first land eyes on her. He’d been waiting. 

“Hey- look who decided to bless us all with his presence! I see you didn’t _drown_ in that shower,” he calls out, and the lack of derogatory nicknames also catches her attention. He hops up and makes his way over to the counter, climbing up the barstool and reaches over, swiping the shot glass from Andy’s hand before he can fill it again. “Mind if I snag some off of you?” 

“Haven’t we been snagging things off of each other for awhile now?” Andy returns, but pours his shot. “And if anyone is in danger of drowning in the tub, it’s the overgrown toddler throwing back his big boy juice.” 

“ _Ow_ , cleaned yourself up and got yourself a whole new fucking personality, huh?” Chucky pretends to be genuinely stung, but Tiffany can see the way he’s clearly over the moon, from the way he leans forward and presses a still wet hand on his cheek. “Stop trying to mack on my wife and come see what the kids are doing, will ya’? Glenn’s been dying to show it to you.” 

“ _Ex_ -wife, you dirty jailbird,” Tiffany jibes, mixing the ice. She’s been sipping too slow and the whiskey is watered down. Chucky whistles a tune at her, pouring himself another shot as Andy makes his way to the coffee table easing himself down criss-cross on the carpet. The twins prattle on about their almost esoteric looking masterpieces, Glenda’s booming voice almost overtaking Glenn’s. Andy, somehow and somewhat miraculously, manages to hear and respond to the pair of them as if it was second nature. It must come with running a shop, Tiffany thinks to herself. Chucky refills her glass too, eying her cup. 

“We have whiskey rocks, you know,” he tells her. “In the freezer.” 

“A bit too late for that now, don’t you think?” she asks, taking a sip. She fixes the collar on his shirt, out of habit. She gestures to the twins, who have somehow managed to get paint on Andy’s arm and nose. “They were dying to see you. I know they won’t say it, especially Glenn, but they were.” 

“You sure it was little old me and not the kid?” he questions aloud, and she’s not sure if he’s aware he’s even said it. He turns, and she watches him watching them, fondness in his eyes, and always, _always_ landing back on Andy. If any human beings were magnets, she’s found them, from the way the attention span stays within their own personal orbit. He hums thoughtfully to himself, nursing his shot a little longer than he normally would. “I’d like to think I have tough skin. I can handle a bit of brutal honesty.” 

“I actually did come by with some news,” she decides to share. At this, he cranes his neck back towards her, his defense mechanism already whirring into motion. A man always on the run has ways of staying on guard, even when he seems he’s relaxed, and Chucky is one of them. His whole life has been a Houdini entourage, mastering the art of escaping prison, death, and possibly even Hell itself, although only time will tell. She’s not sure he can escape this though, even if he wanted to. For all she knows, this predicament may be why he’ll feel as if he doesn’t want to escape it in the first place. A deadly kind of ambrosia runs between him and Andy, if she’s correct. A larger part of her hopes she is wrong. She could have easily misread the articles and anecdotal notes. Any layman could have. 

“Well, come _out_ with it then, woman, don’t leave me hear on the precipice of a fucking heart attack. I’ve made it this far without dying - I’m not trying to croak in front of my own kids.” 

His voice, a sharp whisper, is a resounding corroboration of the fear festering inside of him. She eases back, if only to quell his trepidation. It won’t do to have him defensive; she won’t get any answers from him, and her curiosity won’t be satisfied. 

“It’s nothing like that, don’t get all worked up,” she says, while he visibly relaxes into the barstool, shoulders slumped and chest heaving upward and out, and then downward and in again, as he takes a deep breath. “Just some housekeeping business, I think.”

She takes another sip, trying to finish her drink this time, before her ice cubes completely infuse themselves into the whiskey again. She catches one in her mouth, letting it melt on her tongue while she rolls it around her teeth. She’s still mulling over her scattered research in her head; she doesn’t want to awaken a false alarm in either of them, but Chucky is also the only person she knows that would be able to dissect the information she’s found. The only thing that leaves her wary is his action first, questions later response to nearly every challenge he comes across. It’s a good thing Andy is more methodical (although, not really by much more, bless him). But perhaps, they’ll balance it out. She steadies herself and peers over at her children once more, just to see how much in earshot they are. Even if they were, they’re highly distracted making a mockery of whatever monstrosity Andy has created on a canvas, and she’s highly certain he’s continuing to desecrate it now just to egg them on and leave them in stitches on the floor. 

  
  


“Does the term _ti bon ange_ mean anything to you?” she asks, finally, after a long pause.

“Sounds familiar - maybe John mentioned it, but I can’t say it has a meaning for me, no.” 

His eyes are on the trio still, but now his attention is elsewhere, mutely running the phrase over and over. Almost as if on cue, Andy turns, and she watches as their eyes lock, and if anything, it only concretes her conspiracies. The way they look at each other, they are more as one soul than two, now and in other moments she’s seen them. Chucky’s transition was the exemplar of this, but there are other littered moments here and there, and this is one of them. Andy challenges the twins to just _try and one-up his ‘magnum-opus’, little jerks_ , and says he needs a drink, and then he’s at the bar again, pouring himself a shot. Little things that normally she would not notice, nor is she sure anyone would, but no one called him here so suddenly. Just like no one impressed upon him to feel such pain as Chucky had those nights. Just like Chucky had had no explanation for the nausea and anxiety and weariness that had no cure, except to find himself here, with Andy, when she’d asked. 

She watches as their arms brush ever so slightly, and remain there, and Andy takes his shot. They are all wordless but for the twins, who are in a conversation of their own, but she feels them speaking to each other, somehow. It may be that Chucky already knows, and has settled into it, finding no problem with it. She’s only ever known him to use others anyways, and this would just be one more avenue he’s taking to always have someone on his team, even if coerced. But he doesn’t have that gaudy demeanor that he normally would if this were the case, and Andy would not have such a healthy glow. If she had thought it was obvious before, it seems _glaringly_ so now. 

“Give the kids something to do,” she hisses to Chucky, feeling the answer so close. She anticipates it because she’s so _certain_ that she is right, and she loves nothing more than to be right on the money about any of her presumptions. “There’s something I want to discuss with the both of you.” 

Chucky stares at her.

“For the _last_ time, Tiff, we’re _not_ fucking, holy _Christ_ ,” he starts, and Andy suddenly seems very preoccupied with the bottle as if he’d never seen it before, cheeks coloring. Chucky doesn’t even seem to notice, rolling his eyes in the true spirit of melodrama and continuing to gripe at her. “If we _were_ , you’d be the first I’d tell, honest. Scout’s honor.” 

“We’re _never_ ...” Andy interrupts him, coughing on his drink, “And if we ever _do_ , you’ll find yourself meeting your maker quicker than the first time I set you on fire if you use that megaphone you call a mouth to tell people about it.” 

“That’s not what I was going to say, but the defensiveness makes me actually want to ask, now,” Tiffany responds, more than a little amused, as Chucky whips back with something along the lines of Andy _wishing_ he knew what he could do with his megaphone mouth. They’re too deep into bickering now though, drunk and on what is clearly a touchy subject for one, if not the both of them, and child-handling has been left to her yet again. At least Andy had put _some_ of his babysitting hours in. She sighs, and leaves them to their own devices, fully confident that if they haven’t maimed or murdered each other so far, it’s not likely that they will now. 

She makes her way to the twins, settling herself in between them. Glenda has painted something very abstract, with harshly (and yet eye-catching) complimentary colors, while Glenn is putting gentle strokes on what already is appearing to be a masterpiece fit for the Louvre. The art reflects the artists, both being wildly different, and yet clearly wonderful in their own way. Glenda nods towards where Andy and Chucky are still squabbling like schoolchildren, and Tiffany shrugs it off. They’ve all been here a sufficient amount of times to know it won’t amount to anything. Glenn is hardly even phased, only looking up once from his work to show her their progress so far. 

“The adults are going to go smoke, okay?” she tells them, and they both shrug, clearly unperturbed by whatever it is the so called _adults_ decide to do. “Your father has already said the fridge is open season, so if you’re hungry or thirsty, you know what to do. You have my junk food exception this _once_.” 

“Do we get a _no alcohol_ exception too?” Glenda asks, and even Glenn glances her way. Tiffany closes her eyes and sighs slowly. 

“ _One_ drink, and it can only be beer,” she replies, and they squeal at each other eagerly. “But only _one_ , or I’m never making that exception again, you hear me?” 

They’re not listening, already running to the fridge. Their commotion is enough to startle Chucky and Andy out of their battle of wits, and she seizes this opportunity to get their attention. She tugs at Chucky’s arm, chucking her head towards the patio doors, and he grunts, clearly reluctant to get out of his seat, but elbows Andy anyways. He slowly makes his way off the barstool, grumbling under his breath about needing a smoke anyways, after Andy’s _incessant whining_ , and Andy follows shortly, grinning sheepishly at her and shrugging. “It’s a typical Saturday,” he says in between his teeth, and she nods, returning a gentle smile as they make their way out back. 

It isn’t deathly cold, but Chicago is never really warm in the spring, and she hugs herself to keep warm. Andy swipes at the dust on the pillowed outdoor seating before patting one he finds acceptable for her to sit on, ever the gentleman, and when she shivers, he offers the blanket. Chucky makes himself comfortable on the other seat, leaning into the crunched-cold pillows and taking a deep inhale, before blowing the smoke out slowly and evenly. The city is alive as always, but it seems far away beneath them. She can catch the faraway lights and they melt into the sky, as if they were all stars, and the darkness between them was their own story. She takes the blunt out of Chucky’s hand, and puffs. 

“If this has to do with that _boner angle_ thing, I don’t have any idea how to help,” Chucky starts.

“You are an _ignoramus_ , and I really have no clue how you got away with meddling with any kind of so called “dark magic” for as long as you have,” Tiffany responds, quickly. She passes the blunt to Andy, whose eyes are wide enough to give the moon a run for its money. Already in over his head, and she hasn’t even said anything yet. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring it up at all. He takes a hit silently, posted up in a cozy fashion against the railing, and passes it back to Chucky. She rubs her hands beneath the blanket, warming feeling back into them. “It’s _ti bon ange_ , and you might want to try and listen and be a bit educated about it, because it affects you, and _him_.” 

Chucky coughs on his hit, thumping his chest. “And how exactly does it really have anything to do with _him_?” he questions pointedly, snickering. It’s all a game to him, she realizes, and it’s aggravating enough to make her fantasize about shoving him off the side of the railing, just to watch him splat on the traffic below. Better yet, just on the sidewalk, that way he won’t inconvenience too many more people. “It’s not like I’ve been trying to get in his body recently.” 

“That’s precisely what I’m talking about,” she insists, and pulls out her phone. “Didn’t you ever find it strange, that you walked away whole after never completing the ritual, even once? How did you even know it was something that would work? Did you even know if that was the correct process to begin with?” 

“I didn’t,” he says, haphazardly, and takes another slow hit, still coughing from the one that caught the wrong wind. “I took a guess and just went for it.” 

“Of course you did, you selfish dick,” she grimaces. She gives Andy a sympathetic look before turning back on him, swiping the blunt out of his hand again, to which he gives her a dark scowl, crossing his arms. She waves towards Andy, who appears very out of place and confused. “And I suppose you don’t care much about the fact that _he’s_ involved as a result?”

“In what way, exactly, Tiff?” Chucky snaps, clearly irritated. “You keep talking in fucking circles. What does this really have to do with him, outside of the fact we live together?” 

“Uh, I’m right here - _hi_ , by the way - in case both of you forgot,” Andy cuts in, meekly, and sneaking the blunt away before Tiffany can grab it from Chucky. She blows a hot breath. 

“Okay, I’ll get right to it then- _sorry_ , honey,” she pauses, touching Andy’s arm ever so slightly in apology. She’s sorry for this, and she’s sorry for everything that Chucky has ever dragged this boy through, including what she is going to share now. She probably wonders more often than she should on how much more successful Andy would have been if he and Chucky had never crossed paths, and she wonders if he has these thoughts too. If they keep him up at night. She takes a deep breath, and folds her hands in her lap before leaning forward towards her ex-husband, whose eyes of ice are piercing at her in wait. “I think, during your misguided attempts and ultimate collection of failures, you have, many times, _fragmented_ your _ti bon ange_ into several pieces.” 

Now they’re both looking at her, waiting for him to drive her point on to them. Andy is just barely dangling the blunt between his fingers, and Chucky has long forgotten it. For once, there’s silence from the both of them. She can hear the twins through the glass, laughing at the buzzing on the television. There is the flitting thought of checking in on them and ensuring they held true to their promise of not having too much alcohol, but only for a second. Chucky is still waiting, mouth half opened. His stupidity in this is unfathomable to her; for him to have been involved and utilizing this particular sect of belief, only to know nothing about it, is appalling. Not that she should truly be surprised. Still, she’s left speechless, at how his carelessness truly knows no bounds. 

“Chucky, your _ti bon ange,_ from what I understand, is your soul. You have two kinds, but that’s neither here nor there right now. What’s important is _this_ one. This one is where your personality, your individual qualities, are. When you open your _ti bon ange_ , say for one of those soul-swapping rituals, you open yourself to _any_ and _everything_. And with the way you were so obviously _willy-nilly_ about it, I doubt you had any sort of protection.” 

She pauses, for a breath. The two pairs of eyes are still on her, silent. Even Chucky seems positively anxious, the seriousness of their situation finally settling in, and again, innately it would seem, Andy’s hand comes down to rest on his shoulder. As if he had felt it at the same moment. 

“Everything, according to Vodou belief, is energy. You and Andy, for example, both have your own _ti bon ange_ . Souls that can travel and divide and regroup. So, your _ti bon ange_ \- your _soul_ , for the sake of simplicity, was in limbo, vulnerable to the powers and energies that be. It was meant to be transported, as it can be, from your body into Andy’s. That was your plan. But, as it comes in many different segments, when you began and then had the transfer so brutally interrupted, only pieces of your soul made into Andy’s body, while some remained inside you, and vice versa. Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

From the glassy look in Chucky’s eyes, she can tell he does not understand at all. 

“You don’t feel it?” she asks, darting her eyes between the two of them. “You’ve mentioned it before - this strange connection that neither of you could quite fight off. The feeling of being incomplete when you’re not near each other. Even you, Andy, felt it, when Chucky was undergoing his transition into humanity again. You can’t deny this.” 

Andy shifts, visibly uncomfortable. “No, I… _can’t_ ,” he admits, quietly. It must have been the first he’s confessed this aloud, because Chucky audibly grunts in surprise, raising a brow towards him as he glances, ever so covertly, at Andy. He clearly hadn’t realized the connection went so deep in both directions, and probably assumed it was a strange and unrequited thing, and never bothered to ask or bring it up out of fear of exposing himself. And Chucky is not one inclined to exposure. It only makes his negligence of his own soul all the more sardonic. 

“You’re _ti bon agnes_ are twisted in on each other,” she says, and she doesn’t have to simplify what this means; she can see the comprehension dawning on their faces in perfect synchrony. But she does anyways, sliding her hands together as she explains, just so there is no misunderstanding. 

“Your souls - they’re… you are _pieces_ of each other’s _souls,_ as _one_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, for the love of god I’m not beta’ing this. If someone wants to volunteer, be my guest. I hate reading my own writing. Also, I hate when I do happen to reread it for whatever reason and I find embarrassing spelling, punctuation or grammar mistakes. I teach English, for Christ’s sake. Also, I am drunk, on whiskey no less, thank you and good night. 
> 
> (PS- I don’t know much about Vodou, so some of this is loosely based for plot purposes (as the original film had the elements in it) and I’m still reading up on it, so if I’m wrong on anything, please feel free to correct me and then shoot me on sight. Thanks.)


End file.
